Tell Me What I Want to Hear
by ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: Grantaire deals with his developing relationship with Enjolras. Modern AU (college). Grantaire/Enjolras.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis, any of its pretty boys, or much of anything else. I do have this shiny piece of tin foil though, so, yeah, we can share if you want?

* * *

Chapter One: Say Something Stupid

They're almost naked, and, holy hell, he's got Enjolras underneath him. And then Grantaire's got his wrists, dragging them up to the cheap frame of his dorm room bed, searching, finding the belt he's drug off those thin hips. He winds the brown leather carefully, tightening around those beautiful, fragile wrists, leaning over Enjolras to place a kiss there.

Then he's leaning back, straddling Enjolras, panting, daring a glance at that face only to see something he didn't expect.

Dread.

"What?" he asks, breathy and desperate and so damn hard.

"Nothing," Enjolras rejects. He smiles, and it's a poor impression of a smile and Grantaire groans as he realizes he's going to have to stop. He'd gotten so far, farther than they've ever been. And he's twenty for fuck's sake, and Enjolras is eighteen and eighteen year olds shouldn't be able to pull up short like this; it's just not fair.

"Apollo, you're killing me!" he whines, rolling off, unable to keep from pressing his hand to the front of his briefs.

"It's fine," the blonde assures as he tugs a bit at his tied hands, "Grantaire, it's fine. Keep going."

But hell, he's not even hard anymore and that probably means he's seriously freaked out, and since when did Enjolras start lying to him about this crap?

"Shit," Grantaire says as he reaches up to the belt and undoes it. He winds it around his hands as Enjolras sits up beside him, not looking at him, drawing his knees to his chest and hiding what his red boxer briefs don't.

"I'm sorry."

"No, fuck, don't be sorry. I just, I didn't know you wouldn't like it."

"I…uh, I…"

"Speechless, Apollo?"

"I'm sorry."

Grantaire sighs and drops the belt over the edge of the bed as he speaks, "Stop saying that. It's okay. Seriously, hey, look at me."

Enjolras doesn't.

"It's okay."

"Maybe I should go," he says instead as he gets off the bed and pulls on his jeans. Grantaire is for a moment speechless himself, then he's up, grabbing the blonde around the waist, determined not to let him leave like this.

"Don't go," he pleads. He stands behind Enjolras, arms looped around him, face pressed between his shoulder blades. "Please. Talk to me. Did you not like it? Is that, uh, not your thing? Cause that's fine, man, totally. I should probably have asked, but you didn't say anything. My fault."

It had only been is fantasy for like, forever, but if Apollo didn't like it, Grantaire could settle. And what the hell was he saying, being with Enjolras was about as far from settling as he could possibly get.

"No, it's me," Enjolras sighs, relaxing the tiniest bit in his arms but making no move to turn around. "I need to tell you something."

"Uh-oh," Grantaire presses a smile into his neck. His ease isn't completely real because he's thinking about all the pre- and (more often than he would like) post-sex revelations he's heard before. He's thinking about STIs and sexuality and, hell, asexuality because he doesn't think that's a possibility but maybe Enjolras has just been humoring him up to this point.

"You know you can tell me anything," he assures, pulling him close, trying to comfort with little touches. He wants Enjolras to turn around, but he doesn't. There's a long time of silence, then the blonde sighs.

"I've never done this before," he admits in a whisper.

"This as in being tied up or this as in sex?"

"The latter."

"Did you just say 'latter'? Uh, sorry, wrong question, wrong thing to say," he babbles, unsure what he was supposed to say. Should he comfort, or laugh, or tell him just how exciting and nerve-wracking and so damn good that is. He ends up saying something stupid, "I didn't know."

"Right," Enjolras agrees and steps out of his arms. He retrieves his shirt from the floor and pulls it on without looking at Grantaire. He finds his shoes and socks, doesn't take time to put them on, and walks out the door.

Grantaire realizes that it could have been a beautiful moment with a brilliant declaration of love, could have been if he hadn't screwed it up so badly. Story of his life.

~tbc~

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Notes: First multiple chapter Les Mis fic, so please bear with me as I get to the plot (and the more fun not-plot). All reviews and comments are really appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	2. Say Something Unusual

Chapter Two: Say Something Unusual

Enjolras storms back into their room barefoot and red in the face. Combeferre looks up just in time to see him flop face forwards onto his bed and lay there.

"Grades or Grantaire?" he questions.

There's no answer and he's genuinely concerned. He put his textbook down on his desk and goes to sit beside Enjolras. Gently he takes the shoes out of his hand and puts them on the floor before raking his hand through blond curls.

"Want to talk about it?" he asks.

"No."

"Need to talk about it?" he tries, getting an indeterminate grunt in return. "That's probably a yes."

"He's going to break up with me," Enjolras sighs, carefully rolling over to stare at the ceiling. Combeferre takes a deep breath, staying calm in the face of his friend's melodramatics. Usually these were directed at controversial political topics, but he was young and not immune to applying the same passion to his (currently unstable) relationship with Grantaire.

"I doubt that," Combeferre assures, now brushing Enjolras's hair out of his face. "But why do you think so?"

Enjolras looks at him, evaluates him, apparently finds him worthy of further information.

"Because I'm a loser."

"Stop that."

"What?"

"Being stupid. You know you're not a loser."

Enjolras glares, clearly upset that Combeferre won't let him have a proper fit and pity-party over whatever this is. Combeferre smiles because he knows Enjolras is only like this around him, this kind of petulance never making an appearance in other company. He appreciates his friend's trust.

"Want to tell me about it?"

Enjolras opens his mouth at the same time Grantaire opens the door.

"Never mind," Combeferre smiles. He gets off the blonde's bed and goes back to his desk. He thinks about leaving the room, but he decides not to unless they request it. He doesn't want it to become a habit for them, forcing him out of his own room.

"Um, hey," Grantaire says as he walks into the room. He's wearing a polo shirt, and Combeferre notes this only for its originality; it doesn't have paint on it. His hair too seems to be more tame, brushed back rather than crammed under a cap. He looks much more put together than Enjolras at this point, who is laying on his bed, t-shirt rucked up a little around his waist and still barefoot, his hair tossed.

"Hey," Enjolras answers. He doesn't get up, so Grantaire goes to stand over him.

"You telling 'Ferre what a jerk I am?"

"No."

Grantaire raises an eyes brow in disbelief, but his general expression is calm and mostly unreadable.

"Well, I'm sorry anyway."

Enjolras sighs almost silently and drags himself up to sit against the headboard. He pulls his shirt down and runs a hand through his hair, doing nothing to put it to rights.

"I believe," he says, "that I should be saying that."

"Yeah, well, whatever gets you to come to dinner with me."

"I have work—"

"And hour. Just an hour," Grantaire bargains, "We'll go to the cafeteria and have awful spaghetti and then I'll buy you ridiculously expensive coffee."

"I don't—"

"Say yes," Grantaire interrupts. He jumps onto the bed, sitting right in front of Enjolras. He tugs at the younger boy's hand until he gets it up enough to interlace their fingers. "Say yes, say yes, say yes."

Enjolras just stares at him, then, "Just coffee."

Combeferre tuts a little at that, but he'll let it go just this once for the sake of their resolution.

"Okay," Grantaire agrees, lifting their linked hands so he can place a kiss on Enjolras's wrist.

* * *

They walk four blocks to get coffee because Enjolras can't walk into Starbucks without inciting a riot. Grantaire wishes this was an exaggeration, but it's not, and he's learned not even to try to sneak a latte from the corporate giant because so help him if his boyfriend finds the cup in the recycle bin.

And how the hell had he ended up with a recycle bin in his room anyway?

This guy. Grantaire smiles and nudges Enjolras; he's been quiet, seemingly lost in thought, and now it's their turn at the counter. The barista smiles, exchanges some pleasantries, and asks if they want their usuals. They do.

They move to a small table in the back. It's a bit late for coffee and a bit early for the poetry reading crap that happens here, so they're mostly isolated, free to speak, Grantaire thinks. Though he cannot for the life of him think of how to launch into this conversation without embarrassing Enjolras.

"So, how awkward is this, on a scale of falling asleep in lecture to waking up next to an inflatable sheep?" he asks.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, tries to hide his smile and fails, "Inflatable sheep?"

"Is that an answer or a question?"

"Question."

"Well, I didn't say it was me," he grins in return, letting his hand slip under the table to rest on the other's knee, "It was my sheep, though. You're not going to lecture me on plastic-animal rights, are you? Because Mr. Wooly and I were in a committed, consensual relationship."

"Noted."

"Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't know, okay? And if I did, I wouldn't have," he pauses and thinks about what he wouldn't have done; Enjolras gives him time, looking away and sipping his coffee with too much sugar. Finally Grantaire says, "I wouldn't have gone so fast, and I would have made it better and slower and…the best for you, yeah?"

Enjolras nods but doesn't look at him. There's a flush of red spreading across his cheeks now, and it's so adorable that Grantaire can't help himself. He takes his hand off Enjolras's knee and uses it to gently cup his cheek, turn his head, and kiss him lightly. Afterwards, he rubs their noses together in that way that Enjolras claims to hate but Grantaire knows (or at least likes to think) he secretly loves. He pulls back, but only a little, keeping his tentative hold on the other's cheek.

"I really, really like you, and we don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

Enjolras swallows, "I'm ready. I mean, I hesitated in the moment, but I am."

"You're sure?" he questions, dropping his hands and picking his coffee back up, "You're not just telling me what I want to hear?"

"Grantaire," Enjolras shakes his head, "when have I ever told you what you wanted to hear?"

"Point. Very, very good point."

~tbc~


	3. Say Something Pleasing

Chapter Three: Say Something Pleasing

It's late when they leave the coffee shop and Enjolras is worried about the work he needs to do. He lets Grantaire walk him to his room, but kisses him at the door and sends him on his way. He watches, just a few seconds that he knows he really cannot spare but does anyway, the dark haired boy walk to the stairs, and he's thankful for Grantaire.

He turns and goes into his room. Combeferre is still awake at his desk, taking notes and staring at a large biology book. He doesn't speak, and Enjolras doesn't interrupt his studies. He goes to his own desk, symmetrically located at the end of his own bed, and turns on his laptop before kicking off his shoes and taking a seat

His books are there, open already, and he's been formulating his response for three days. He knows his stance, his points, and his quotes; he also knows how the professor will react to the extreme view he's taking (a view which he believes in without reservation) and he's looking forward to some discussion. Dr. Sorrel might now allow him to debate at length during class (an annoyance, he thinks) but she's not above calling him into her office. Last time he was there for almost two hours and came away with some new books.

Enjolras begins and falls into focus. He forgets Grantaire and everything else as he searches for the right word, the right phrase, the right, erudite allusion that might impress the professor and get his point across. Because though he does want to impress her, a bit, he's more focused on expressing himself.

It's hours later when he looks up, thinking to have Combeferre read over what he's done. The overhead light is off, and the other boy is in bed. Enjolras has no idea when this happened and is not sure if his friend even tried to tell him goodnight. He shrugs, turns on his desk lamp, and goes back to work.

* * *

"That's not good for you," Combeferre tells him for the billionth time as he takes a seat across the table and eyes the coffee Enjolras is adding a multitude of sugar packets to. "Tell me you already ate something?"

Enjolras shakes his head, stirs his coffee, and then goes back to the newspaper he's holding. He has a political science class in thirty minutes, and he likes to be up to date.

"When did you go to bed?" Combeferre continues as he steals one of the two unused sugars and adds it to his oatmeal.

"Late. Midnight, I guess?"

"I went to bed at one, and you were still up."

"Oh," Enjolras replies. He hadn't checked the time. "Are you going this weekend?"

"Yes, if nothing else to make sure you don't starve while defending the rights of man."

"Great," Enjolras deftly ignores the comment about himself, "Is Courf in?"

"Yes, and, before you ask, he said he can't drive."

"Who else has a car?"

"Marius has the Rio and Grantaire has the van."

"Think we'd fit in the Rio?" Enjolras questions, imagining six or seven of them crammed in the tiny car.

"Doubtful. Eponine wants to come too. Just ask him, he'll come," Combeferre assures.

* * *

Enjolras asks, and Grantaire finds the whole situation way too funny.

"So you want me to pack you and your hippy, fresher friends into my crap wagon and drive three and a half hours so you can yell at some people?" he asks.

"There will also be signs," Enjolras defends, refusing to give in and smile like the other. "I'll pay for the gas."

"It's the weekend though."

"And food. I'll buy all your food."

"Even snacks?"

Enjolras isn't happy about this, and he feels a little like he's being exploited. Actually, he feels a lot like he's being exploited; he thinks that if he'd just said pretty please Grantaire would have caved, gas and snacks notwithstanding. Enjolras does not say pretty please. The please was hard enough.

"Yes, even snacks. No Funyuns, though, they're gross."

"What do you have against Funyuns? Okay, I'll drive on one more condition," Grantaire continues to bargain. "I want one random pit stop of my choosing, and you will not harass me about wasted time for the duration thereof."

"But there's a time schedule—"

"On the way back."

Enjolras thinks it through, debates all the ways in which a random pit stop could go horribly, horribly wrong. Courfeyrac could fall in love with a truck stop waitress. Joly could come into contact with a rare form of bathroom-living bacteria. Grantaire could make them stare at the world's largest ball of twine.

"Come on, you've got no ride without me," he points out. Still, Enjolras hesitates, thinking. "Look, it's either this or you have to run back to daddy and tell him you've reconsidered and you really do want that pretty Prius for your birthday."

"Taire," he warns, not liking this at all and really on the verge of walking away. Maybe they could take the bus; he's pretty sure his allowance would cover the tickets.

"Okay, okay," the other relents.

"One stop, one hour," Enjolras offers.

"And gas and snacks. Real snacks, not Trader Joe's granola bullshit."

"Yes."

"Congratulations, sir, you've just acquired the services of the world's worst chauffeur and the world's most questionable vehicle."

He seals the deal with a kiss, but Enjolras is stiff and not quite ready to forgive him.

* * *

"Shotgun!" Courfeyrac calls, and Grantaire wants to hit him.

"No," Combeferre steps in, "Enjolras rides up front. Do you want another Richmond Incident?"

Courfeyrac hastily concedes that he does not, and Grantaire raises a questioning eyebrow in Enjolras's direction.

"We're not talking about that," he says with a hint of pink in the cheeks.

Grantaire sighs and picks up several of the glittery posters to cram in the back of his van. It's huge and old and painted (by him) to resemble the mystery machine; it may have been a dare and he may have been a little too drunk to remember it very clearly, but his paint job is fantastic and, besides, he's much too lazy to fix it. He catches Courfeyrac at the back doors, out of sight of his boyfriend, and asks about the incident because anything that can make Enjolras blush is worth asking about. He expects a story about arguing, about radio control, about competitive navigation. He does not expect Courfeyrac to shake his head and tell a terrible story about Enjolras throwing up in a plastic bag. Gross.

"I did not need to hear that," he decides.

"You asked," Courfeyrac returns. "Now, though, he always gets shotgun. I think it was a ploy."

"Really?"

"No. It was kind of sad. He took a Dramamine afterwards and slept all the way home lying in 'Ferre's lap."

Okay, that was cute.

"And no," Courfeyrac sees fit to add as he closes the left door, "it is not a good idea to drug your boyfriend."

"I didn't—"

"Bad, R. Bad. I'm really very disappointed in you."

"Shut up and get in the van."

~tbc~


End file.
